


How Is Your Druffalo?

by rhia474



Series: Herald and Lion [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Difference, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, F/M, Sparring, Training, Varric always knows these things, alpha-checking, respect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 02:55:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3712156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhia474/pseuds/rhia474
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <cite> "It’s not that he feels threatened, not exactly. It’s just that…to borrow from Varric’s wildlife comparisons earlier, after enough years one certainly recognizes when a large and extremely dangerous fellow predator who decided to turn into a sheepdog, shows up in one’s territory." </cite>
</p><p> </p><p>Way early in the morning, the Commander's daily routine gets interrupted, but he rises to the challenge. Sort of. Features two very strong personalities alpha-checking each other, based on some readings of early conversations in-game between the Inquisitor and Commander Cullen. Varric, of course, is merely along for the ride and does not, in any shape or form, provide assistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Is Your Druffalo?

**Author's Note:**

> ****  
> 1\. This one is partially born from the desire to really intertwine the storylines and characters of the three games. I am working on a puzzle piece, if you will, that takes place back in Kirkwall and to which this work refers to: a continuation of my fic _Times Gone By_ (or, ‘what did Fenris do while away from Kirkwall in Act 3 of Dragon Age II’). Once you start thinking about the fact that both Varric and Cullen knew the Champion very well indeed, including his/her companions, there are all kinds of possibilities: this fic and the story arc I’m working on, explores one.  
>  2\. I am indebted to my husband yet again, whose experiments with various martial arts, armed and unarmed, create such delightful avenues to walk down on; the titular druffalo happens to be a reference to an early 15th century fighting treatise’s allegorical elephant as the embodiment of solid foundation.  
> 3\. The play Roxanne quotes is, of course, Edmond Rostand’s wonderful _Cyrano de Bergerac_ , a partial inspiration both for my Trevelyan’s name and for a part of her personality and background.  
> 4\. The names for the Chantry services are drawn from the Liturgy of the Hours in the Catholic Church and her monastic tradition. I’m a medievalist by training: it’s only natural.  
> 5\. Also, music: the scene of Cullen’s run took form in my head while listening to Natalie Merchant’s _‘Soldier, Soldier’_ as a kind of ambient current to Haven; give it a listen if you’d like.  
>  6\. As always, comments and suggestions are loved and filed accordingly upstairs in the rookery for future reference. Yeah, that’s it.  
> 

There’s normally enough time before Lauds so Cullen can comfortably put in his running practice, towel off, get to service, and meet the recruits out in the field with his adjutant toting the sheaves of paperwork he needs to go through while observing, correcting and demonstrating. It’s not an easy schedule, but he’s used to it by now. It’s more or less similar to what he did as Knight-Captain, then Knight-Commander in Kirkwall, and he can’t see changing it soon just because he works for the Inquisition now. It’s not that he’s set in his habits in the manners of old men ( _like Father_ , sometimes he thinks as he remembers almost forgotten childhood memories), but he’s a respectable man with respectable duties and the routine that goes with it (or so he likes to tell himself).

Haven’s ramparts are not as grand as the Templar enclave in which he spent his last ten years, but they serve just fine for his low-speed runs at first light. This also affords him the opportunity to observe the transformation of a makeshift refugee camp spilling over a village to the fortified stronghold of the Inquisition as the days and weeks pass. The village is more cramped now that the first troops of the Templars start to trickle in, along with volunteers and contingents of troops from areas across Ferelden and Orlais: mostly token tens and dozens that various nobles can spare, but they do come. Very few of them are really capable, however, so he is never short of work. Cassandra is kind enough to help when she is not with the Herald on a mission, and between the two of them the army of the Inquisition slowly takes shape. He quietly observes how the people slowly lose that hopeless, vacant look in their eyes, their steps fill with purpose, their daily work routines get established, and Haven more and more starts to look like a little town with an adjacent army camp.

He walks down to the training grounds before anyone’s there, sheds the warm cloak and armor at the small tent they erected for him and Cassandra as field office, and starts his run in the old grey Templar tunic and pants he kept back, almost-threadbare from washing and usage, but still perfectly serviceable, thank you very much, and just the thing to keep him warm enough. He jogs up the slope leading to the gates and turns to the right to run by the smithy where Harritt and his apprentices are already busy heating up the great forge. The master smith lifts a hand and salutes him respectfully, like all mornings since they arrived here; this serves as a sort of reminder to both of them that the Inquisition’s army depends a lot on Harritt’s shop and that he can thank them for keeping his supplies flowing.

Well, actually, it’s mostly The Herald who does that. Somehow she manages not only to discover all those mines and supply routes during her travels, but she called her noble connections fully into play as soon as it was possible after couriers and Leliana’s ravens resumed routes, and Haven is now starting to be on the map for traders and merchants. During her late night sessions with Ambassador Montilyet the two of them sit with tea and small cakes and map out possible allies and alliances for the future, quills scratching on parchment and heads, raven-dark and almost snow-white, bowed together in thought. He has no idea how she finds the time, really, between her forays into the Hinterlands and the Storm Coast, but it’s almost as if she thrives on the realization that she can, in fact, effect change on her own, as opposed to merely being a scion of a minor house form the Free Marches.

 They don’t talk very often these days, apart from the regular council meetings that she attends when she’s in Haven, and Cullen isn’t sure if he should be glad about that or disappointed. He’s pleased that the coping mechanism she chose for her condition is working: the Chantry herb garden is thriving, there’s a refugee family helping the seriously overworked Sisters to tend it, and the Herald’s supply crates from her trips arrive via Harding’s scouts on a regular basis with specimens of various plants. She spends time there when not out on a mission: in fact, as soon as she was back from Therinfal Redoubt, she closeted herself there for hours. Mother Gisele told him later that the Herald worked in total silence in a corner of the garden planting some spindleweed from the Storm Coast: very messy conditions are required for that plant’s survival, apparently, as it thrives mostly in water.

_“She practically built a small pond for it,” Mother Giselle told Cullen just yesterday. “Dug the hole, lined with stones, made sure there was water by connecting it to the courtyard fountain, and all.” The Revered Mother shook her head. “Spindleweed is a plant that grows best for the sorrowful, it is said amongst the countryfolk. She had seen things at Therinfal Redoubt that make this perfectly understandable.”_

Cullen has no doubts that the Templar fortress was a harrowing experience:  he has seen the reports, after all, and, more importantly, he talked to Cassandra and Varric about it. They assured him Roxanne would be fine, and Cassandra promised she’d watch out for any nightmares, but there’s this nagging worry at the pit of his stomach now for some reason, as he thinks back at Mother Giselle’s worried expression, and he resolves to find The Herald today and make sure they can talk.

He catches himself lengthening his strides and quickening the pace as he rounds the corner around the apothecary shop, taking the steep stairs by two where his path turns in front of the Chantry.

“Pushing it this morning, Commander?” He looks up just in time to veer to the right, avoiding collision with Sister Leliana. She is up early as well, a bag in her hands as she is making her way from the kitchens towards the makeshift rookery. The bag is slightly misshapen, and bloody.

“Mouse traps working, I take it?” He slows down to match her steps and nods towards her hand. “That was an elegant solution to two problems, Sister.”

“Why, thank you, Commander.” The slender woman who once was known as the Left Hand of the Divine and is now the fledgling Inquisition’s spymaster adjusts her grip on the bag. “Mice amongst the stores are not something we should take lightly, I’m given to understand.  Also, keeping my birds in excellent condition is important, so when your chief scout proposed this, I agreed.  Get rid of vermin _and_ feed the ravens at the same time at no cost?” She dimples. “Lace Harding is apparently a woman of many talents. Will I see you at the council meeting tonight?”

“I will be there with the report on the new contingent of recruits.” Cullen rubs the back of his neck. “Provided I don’t commit suicide by then.”

“That bad?” Leliana asks with a slight smile. They each appreciate what the other is doing, even though they’d never be able to do each other’s job. The fact that both of them are from Ferelden and share some common friends helps in building the camaraderie: he normally would never allow his feelings to show this way, but with Leliana, it never felt awkward. “I assumed we received at least competent volunteers, no?”

“It’s _not_ the volunteers,” Cullen sighs, speeding up a bit as they near where Leliana’s birds are kept. She keeps the pace easily. “It’s the troops our so-called allies are sending: they are way too inexperienced and inferior both in equipment and skill. If we continue at this rate, I need most of the experienced soldiers to be promoted to sergeants so they can train the new ones.”

“Hm.” Leliana has that particular expression on her face that means she is contemplating something rather unpleasant but necessary. Or it might just been the blood of the mice in the bag. “That’s clearly unacceptable. I might need to make a few inquiries around the Hinterlands. Perhaps even send a bird or two to Denerim: we can’t afford to be hamstrung that way.” There is bounce in her steps as she veers off and waves with her unoccupied hand. “Better give this to the birds and get them working, then. I’ll see you after vespers bells, Commander.”

Cullen shudders a bit as he imagines just what type of orders those birds will carry. Leliana _is_ effective, there’s no doubt about that; and he reluctantly admits to himself as he turns on the corner by the quartermaster’s office and takes the stairs down, that this time he fervently wishes she succeeds in telling all those so-called supporters of the Inquisition to shape up and quit sending the chaff of their crop of troops here.

 _Speaking about shaping up, it’s time to end dawdling_ …He changes his speed again from jog to sprint; the last section of his morning route is coming up, and as it’s usually pretty desolate at this hour, he can let go and not worry about anything but the burst of air in his lungs and the slightly increased beating of his heart. His boots pound the uneven pavement of the road leading to the training grounds, he nods at the guards in passing as he exits the lower gate again, feels the sweat pooling on his brow and his back and his muscles flex in the familiar rhythm of free running…

“Curly!” He is proud of himself not jumping in a most undignified manner as the old nickname rings out in the crisp mountain air.  Varric Tethras, almost-merchant-prince of Kirkwall and general up-to-no-good is sitting on an upturned barrel at the corner of the training field, his faithful crossbow at his feet and that _special_ grin on his face that Cullen knows, from years back, means that he’s clearly up to something. “You really push yourself almost as much as you push your recruits, don’t you?.” His eyes travel sideways to look at his companion, and Cullen understands that smile a bit better now. “See, I told you he’d be here if you don’t hurry.”

Cullen stops; this is highly unusual, but he’d be damned if he allowed his almost-sacred morning routine to be disturbed ( _I am not too old and set in my ways, I am not, I am not_ , the deep recesses of his mind echo the mantra). He breathes deep to keep the calmness that always finds him during these runs, tightens his abdominal muscles to snap his mind in focus and banish the headache, affixes the image of the spectacular mountains slowly emerging from the darkness behind it all, and bows the precise amount that Josephine determined is due to the Herald of Andraste from the inner council of the Inquisition.

“Herald.” The familiar feel of exhaustion hits him just then, despite everything, and he leans instinctively forward, hands on thighs, breathing in and out for a second or two. “Forgive me; this is not exactly…”

“On the contrary, Commander.”  She inclines her head politely, bouncing ever so slightly on her feet for some reason. “It is I who is intruding: I woke up early today and Master Tethras here…” ‘ _just Varric, for Andraste’s sake’_ the dwarf mumbles under his breath, but she ignores the interruption, “…suggested to try out the new training dummies that arrived while I was at the Crossroads camp; he wanted some practice with the new arms Master Harritt installed for Bianca yesterday and I hoped  to refresh some rustier moves of mine. “ She gestures to where her greatsword rests next to Varric’s crossbow. “We were hoping not to disturb you, and would be gone before Lauds starts, at any rate.” She tilts her head to the side, questioning. “May we?”

 _So that’s what the bouncing was_ , Cullen thinks, slightly ashamed, because of course now he recognizes the signs: he does the exact same thing when he can’t get to his runs every now and often, Lady Montilyet even chided him once or twice when he was doing that in his chair at council meetings. ‘ _I should think the matters of the Inquisition should not bore you that much, Commander’_ _she said, lush mouth turned slightly into a frown._

 _Lady Montilyet, of course, would never understand_ , Cullen now thinks, _but the Herald does_.

She is wearing her by now customary black; the doublet has the characteristic rust stains around the stays where armor gets attached to it and is way too big for her everywhere but at the shoulders; the pants are baggy and faded but carefully mended at the fraying seams at the side—the boots, however, look brand new, soft but sturdy, their brown a familiar hue and grain.

“More bears?” Cullen asks, nodding towards her feet before he could consider it, but the Herald’s eyes twinkle a bit and she smiles, a rare sight.

“You would not believe it.” She shakes her head: Cullen knows that story from her and Scout Harding’s reports, but it _is_ nice to see The Herald smile, he has to admit, looking at her normally so serious face. “Please do not ask me about wolves either. I am estimating the herbivore population of the Hinterlands will undergo explosive growth due to severe lack of predators this season.”

“They asked for it, really,” Varric says, petting the stock of his crossbow fondly as he hops off the barrel.  Cullen isn’t sure if the more lighthearted tone The Herald employs all of a sudden is due to the fact that she takes Varric with her on her trips more often, but he can’t help but approve if the result is _this_. “I swear it’s almost as if they sense that mark on her: maybe they think it’s a larger, more alpha predator coming to take their territory. The way they come at us every single time…” He waves a hand, airily, noticing the two of them staring at her. “What? So I can’t discuss wildlife now?”

“I merely was not aware you were an expert on animal behavior,” The Herald says crisply, one eyebrow lifted, and that mirrors Cullen’s feeling so perfectly that he can’t help but let a small chuckle escape his lips.

 “Laugh now, Curly,” says Varric darkly, slinging Bianca over his shoulder, “but next time you need a new cloak, you’ll be coming to me for advice on where to find anything because all suitable animals were hunted to extinction by this lady here by then, and I’m just not sure we’re quite up for dragons yet.”

“ _Dragons_?” Cullen inquires, feeling the sweat on his skin suddenly grow very cold. It is odd: he has no compunctions whatsoever regarding The Herald of Andraste going up against demons and lyrium-crazed Templar abominations, but the thought of a fire-breathing giant lizard swooping down on her suddenly makes his mouth go dry. “Have you…?”

“I know there is one on the Hinterlands.” The Herald turns and picks her sword up: that sounds like part of an ongoing argument between the two of them, in Varric’s roll of eyes is to be believed. “And I know enough to leave it alone. For now,” she adds, with a slight frown on her face, and that does _not_ make Cullen any happier. “It stays well out of the populated areas, but I do not like how close it is to one of our advance camps. We shall see.”

“Temperance and caution are some of your greatest virtues, Herald,” Varric says, with considerable amount of relief and a huge grin. “I’m not getting any younger, you know, and after running ten years with someone who _did not_ share those characteristics, to say the least…”

“Oh, of course.” She looks at the dwarf with a newfound expression _: that’s new_ , Cullen thinks, _anyone_ _treating Varric Tethras with respect_ , but he says nothing, of course. “You were in Kirkwall with Ser Hawke.” She pauses, and adds, looking at him now. “Both of you knew her, actually; at some later time I would be grateful if you could share some memories.”

 _Well. That’s….unexpected_ , Cullen thinks, and there’s something nagging at the back of his mind about that, but he doesn’t get the chance to dwell upon it, because The Herald bows to him then, with the effortless grace of one noble-born, the one that still makes him feel clumsy, bumbling and eighteen and his mind snaps back to the present with an almost audible sound. “Now, however, I must ask for your forgiveness; I really should work on my form and see if the practice dummies are sturdy enough for the Inquisition’s soldiers.”

She hesitates just a beat, head tilted sideways, as her thoughtful gaze rests on him for a tad longer than usual. Her Fade-green eyes hold a definite challenge, a steady pulse of _something._  Cullen suddenly has the disconcerting feeling that he’s _measured up_ now, and his breath quickens as he recognizes what’s going on. The thrill of the battlefield goes through him in one lightning-quick strike.

 _It’s like being in front of a large bird of prey,_ he thinks, and unselfconsciously rubs an ankle with the other foot which he’s not done since he first stood in Knight-Commander Meredith’s office the first time after arriving in Kirkwall.

It’s not that he feels _threatened_ , not exactly. It’s just that…to borrow from Varric’s wildlife comparisons earlier, after enough years one certainly recognizes when a large and extremely dangerous fellow predator who decided to turn into a sheepdog, shows up in one’s territory.

“On the other hand,” Roxanne Trevelyan says slowly, “as you _are_ here…May I assume that you still partake in arms drills with the recruits, Commander, and if so, would you care to share a bout with someone who favors a different weapon arrangement? Perhaps a slight change in difficulty would be welcome?”

It _is_ true that he did spar with Cassandra on occasion since he became Commander here, so he cannot in good conscience say that he is bored at practice, not exactly. But the challenge of it, certainly: she trained at the Val Royeaux Academy, he knows, and dueled enough to get that scar across her forehead, which, he knows from Leliana’s files, marks her as one of the members of a small organization within the cadets there.

“Perhaps,” he acknowledges with a slight dip of his head, and finds that he is already moving his body into the first stance without realizing it, assessing her frame with the dispassionate gaze of an opponent with cold eyes. “One exchange, no armor, to the yield?”

“Watch it, Curly.” Varric’s voice has a slight warning as his eyes dart between them. “You have not seen her fight yet; this is not...”

“Excellent.” Roxanne cuts him off, her voice betraying just the slightest amount of satisfaction. “We shall start anon. Commander, your sword if you please?”

Cullen, as he turns towards the small tent in which he keeps his weapons and armor almost by reflex, belatedly starts to realize that apparently they already fought the first bout: she challenged, and he accepted almost immediately, because clearly, it’s impossible that she really _could_ be just as good as…

 _Damn it, Rutherford,_ he swears at himself as he runs a towel across his face and neck, still damp with sweat from his run, grabs his doublet, sword and shield, _you are so bored of paperwork and yelling at undertrained levy troops and peasant volunteers that you are ready to take on the Herald of Andraste herself just because she engaged in a bit of alpha-baiting she learned in her Academy days? Almost fifteen years your junior and just recently over some pretty serious battlefield stress episodes, too, so she probably feels she needs to prove something. Have you no shame, really?_

And he finds that, oddly enough, he feels no shame, not the least. Instead, there is a certain sense of relief and the feeling that his day had just got inexplicably _better_.

“I assume you have no objections if I use this?” he says, lifting the kite-shaped shield he carried for a long time, repainted quite recently with the emblem of the Inquisition instead of the Templar sword he’s so used to. “As we talked about different styles?”

“Oh, my.” Roxanne flashes a grin, wide and almost startling on a face he used to seeing so serious all the time, and her voice drops to a throaty almost-purr. “What a big _shield_ you have there, Commander.”

That startles him, again, almost physically rocking him back on his heel—until he hears Varric’s chuckle and realizes that he’s been had again.

“I told you, Curly,” the dwarf says, deciding, apparently, that instead of trying out the modifications on his crossbow, he’ll just observe them instead. He hops back on the barrel and shakes his head. “You have absolutely _no_ idea what you got yourself into. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 _I see,_ Cullen thinks, cautiously stretching his shoulders a bit and sliding his left arm into the leather straps of his shield. _So this is part of a game. She probably had to do it at the Academy all the time to prove her mettle, especially since she’s normally prone to be thoughtful, measured and rather eloquent. That, most likely, marked her as inferior to the proud Orlesian aristocrats, along with her Free Marcher origins._

Cullen is not used to verbal probes and insults prior to challenges and duels: as a Templar originally from Ferelden, he was never part of the culture that produces them. He is, however, intimately familiar with mental games: Mages and Templars, living together, inevitably developed something that could, in any other segment of society, be termed slightly unhealthy.

_Very well then: let’s see if I still remember._

“It’s not much, I know,” he says, almost apologetically, sliding one foot forward and lifting his sword above his head. “ _This_ , on the other hand…”

“An overcompensator.” Roxanne sighs, Varric guffaws, and Cullen concentrates on not dropping his sword out of sheer shock. “I would never have thought _that_ of you, Commander: you surely took vows of celibacy back in the Order?”

“Maker’s Breath, Herald!” There’s only so much he can take, and his voice rings out a bit louder than necessary as he swears. “First of all, celibacy was _not_ one of the…” He bites off the end of the sentence because Roxanne moves just then, greatsword lazily held by her right side with both hands whipping up next to her head lightning-fast. She steps forward and thrusts at his face with the same motion… and he has to twist and swing his shield up and around to block that, even before his mind processes what just happens.

“ _Oh, la la.”_ She shakes her head, the phrase and the shrug accompanying it pure Orlais for a second: clearly an attempt to throw him again. “My sincere apologies for the impertinence of my questions, Commander,” and she comes around again, fast, _so_ _fast, damnation,_ and he spins again as her blade rings against his shield the second time, not leaving him enough opening to counter with his own weapon, “but I must admit, the Fereldan accent inevitably led me to assume perhaps a bit…”

 _I think I figured this out,_ Cullen thinks grimly, as he adjusts his stance and begins to advance on her, resigning himself to a much longer bout than he originally expected. This is not a mere courtesy exchange, far from it. This is some kind of test, for her to see if he can be trusted…

He sees her eyes flicker just a second to the right this time and gets her blade with his own, but she sidesteps just _so_ again and he’s left with his blade slicing empty air _…_

 _…_ if he’s good enough not merely to be the leader of the Inquisition’s troops but for her to truly trust him with everything flowing from him discovering her… _affliction_ , and for him to see if she’s really good enough to be Andraste’s Chosen, to be the person all those people around them look up to, to be their mascot, for lack of a better word, and perhaps more.

He slows down a bit, reevaluates his tactics, and begins a slow circle to the left. She’s tall for a woman, maybe even taller than him a bit, and those wide shoulders, even under the thick doublet, command respect.

“Templars do not take vows of celibacy,” he says, crisply and evenly, using his ‘commander talking to raw recruits, educating them about their duties’ voice, “albeit marriage is discouraged, and fraternization amongst the ranks even more so. Our primarily vow is that of obedience, if you must know. Ah. That is, Templars’ are, I mean…” he corrects himself quickly (he’s not one of them, after all, any more) and curses inwardly for it, launching a quick attack of a shield bash-overhead strike combo to mask it…

… He has to find, however, that his blow is met by something that he could only describe as a rock wall with its foundations dug in the living rock of a mountainside.

His shield bounces back from Roxanne’s  blade with a force that almost breaks his arm. As he is almost thrown back and tries to recover his balance ( _what was that, it was not something that is taught in Orlais for sure_ , it flickers through his brain), he barely sees the pommel of her greatsword heading straight towards his face: she reversed her grip, grabbed the blade and the hilt and uses the entire weapon as an axe now.

There’s no way he can pull up the shield arm quick enough, so he dives forward instead, trying the last resort of a headbutt and unbalancing via arms’ tackle…

“ _Oh, la, la_ ,” she says again, a little bit more shakily this time, taking the full force of his body in her midsection, but _unmoving_ , unshakeable, rooted to the ground,  as Cullen sprawls, quite undignified, at her feet.  “I am afraid your druffalo is not nearly strong enough, Commander,” he hears dimly, though the haze of pain: he hopes the arm is merely sprained, but his forehead hit the ground rather hard, and the headache threatens to overwhelm his vision.

_What is it with the animal comparisons again?_

 “ _’Prince, pray Heaven for your soul's weal_!’” She is clearly quoting that from somewhere, in a singsong voice, stepping lightly aside: his head is hurting quite a lot. “’ _I move a pace--lo, such! and such! Cut over--feint! What ho!  You reel?’_ ” and Cullen feels the light tap of the edge of her sword at the exposed back of his neck in rhythm with her words again and again. “ _’At the envoi's end, I touch_!’”

“Really, Herald?” Varric’s voice is slightly disbelieving. “You had to quote an Orlesian play at him? While using _those_ moves?”

“I am somewhat certain Messere Fenris would not mind.” Cullen is not quite sure he heard that right, but he sits up, rubbing at the back of his neck gingerly. It has been quite a while since he felt like he ran headfirst into a castle wall, but this comes as close as anything. “It’s a respectable play about an excellent fighter.” Her slightly frowning face appears in his line of sight now, as she crouches down next to him. “Commander, I apologize most sincerely, should I…”

“No apology needed.” He holds up a hand. “As long as you explain what was it I just encountered.  Your style, I mean. Please,” he adds, wincing slightly. “And… the bit about Fenris.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks color and she bites her lip. “I am sorry; I assumed you knew…” She looks towards Varric and her eyes narrow. “It is quite possible that I shall contemplate dwarvicide in the near future.”

“What?” Varric complains. “You can’t expect me to remember every tiny detail about things that happened so long ago…”

“You wrote _books_ about what happened in Kirkwall, Master Tethras.” Roxanne says darkly, straightening and reaching down to grab Cullen’s hand to haul him to his feet. “Of course you remembered, you merely thought it would be hilarious not informing the Commander that I studied with Messere  Fenris for two years when he was in…”

“In Ostwick as a private arms instructor at Bann Trevelyan’s country estate,” Cullen finishes, nodding, because all of a sudden he remembers, and the mosaic pieces all click together, and now it all makes sense.

 _So that’s why some of this was so eerily familiar_. Cullen remembers now some of the moves he saw from the ex-Tevinter slave in Kirkwall, on that long ago day when he inadvertedly assisted him and Hawke to take down Fenris’ ex-owner. And that’s a story, he decides, that maybe he _should_ share with Roxanne one of these days, because by the Maker, it was quite _something_ , wasn’t it?

Two years under Fenris’ tutelage at the highly trainable and impressionable age of eighteen, plus her years as a cadet at the Imperial Academy in Val Royeaux: yes, she’s dangerous all right. Cullen looks at her with newfound respect and makes a mental note to start to train a bit more frequently with Cassandra.

_Maker’s Breath, maybe I should be daring and even ask the Herald when she’s here to show some of those moves._

“I remember now: two sons and a daughter, he said upon his return,” he says, cautiously flexing his shoulder (it will be all right), “and… that was you. The daughter, I mean,” he adds, wincing inwardly.

_Social skills, Rutherford. Maybe ask Lady Montilyet in your spare time._

_And maybe the Fade will freeze over, too._

“That was, indeed, me.” Roxanne bows from the waist slightly, sketching a graceful arc with her right arm. “I am fortunate enough to be able to combine Orlesian chevalier techniques with Tevinter unarmed wrestling and advanced greatsword rules, uniting two schools of combat as much as possible.” She seems relaxed, utterly at ease and almost sparkling with charm and energy: Cullen finds that he cannot take his eyes off her. “Hence the comment about your druffalo, Commander: I was referring to the solidness of your stance, in case you were wondering. I do try to restrict my verbal baiting to respectable levels as much as possible.”

“I didn’t…” he starts, bristling. “I mean, I am sure you were not referring to… _Maker’s Breath_!” he chuffs, and feels that even his ears are reddening.

“See?” Varric chuckles. “See what I mean? You _really_ shouldn’t mess with her.”

“No.” Cullen rubs the back of his neck again, watching the sheepish grin on Roxanne’s face, and decides, as the first bell for Lauds from the Chantry tower cleaves the cold air, that he is not done with this bout yet, after all. “No, I suppose there’s no _messing_ here.”


End file.
